


Demonic Ecstasy

by IneffableAlien



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Drugs, Festivals, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Psychotropic Drugs, Tempter Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23748355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/IneffableAlien
Summary: Crowley has a Temptation to perform at a festival.  That pill won't have any effect on him, right?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 66





	Demonic Ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> **IT'S ABOUT DRUGS, YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.**
> 
> Crowley has casual sex, it's only referenced not shown, but I know some people don't like to read anything where A/C have sex with anyone but each other so there you go.
> 
> This is incredibly stupid lol but I couldn't stop thinking about Crowley rolling and having _feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel_ ingsssss.
> 
> _Edited to add_ how tf did I miss that I posted this on 420

_Well,_ thought Crowley, _that was fucking intense._

Mike—who had introduced himself as Michael, when Crowley had said his name was Anthony, but Crowley thought there was no way this was a full name guy—reached across the rumpled sleeping bags and traced the hard angles of Crowley’s hipbones, which Crowley had to admit felt pretty good.

Crowley knew Hell was messing with him. Why else would he be put on assignment at an American music festival, full of ankle-deep mud, and twentysomething-year-old humans who used Tom’s of Maine deodorant. Crowley tried hard to remember if he had invented jam bands; he gritted his teeth and pondered how blessed long The Les Claypool Frog Brigade had been playing outside Mike’s tent. The year was 2002, and for whatever reason, Crowley was supposed to Tempt this man into doing something, _anything,_ that would come back to haunt him in later years.

_All_ this effort wasted on one man—unimaginative morons, Hell’s lower-downs, the lot of them.

The consensual sex in the relative privacy of the tent did not fulfill Crowley’s assignment, he had just needed a quick way to ingratiate himself to the young man and pull him off flipping cheese sandwiches on the grill for his campmates. And the guy was enjoyable company, even if Crowley hadn’t really known what to do with being unexpectedly called “Daddy” _(Oh, that was a thing, I guess, I just—keep … going??)._

No, if Crowley was going to do his job then he was just going to have to get Mike out and about, lead him down a long and winding road of debauchery for the night, maybe metaphysically nudge a few festival goers here and there to take some damning pics on their phones. Crowley pulled his jeans on the rest of the way and shot Mike a playful grin as he wound his fingers through his. He stood and tugged Mike along with him through the flap of the tent. “Come on,” he said, “you don’t want to stay in here all day.”

Mike started to open his mouth to voice his opinion that passing out for the rest of the day actually sounded great, thanks anyway, but found that when Crowley worded it like _that,_ Mike was tempted to do nothing more than follow London Daddy to goddamn Hell and back.

It was a sort of chicken or egg question: Does Crowley’s presence encourage sinning, or is Crowley always instinctively right on time to gravitate to it? Either way, there it was, when Crowley stepped out of the tent and almost banged right into a young woman in a long dress, who was passing by each tent and saying, not loudly but very clearly: _“Doses? Molly?”_

“Oi,” said Crowley, stopping her. He wasn’t entirely sure what the deal was with drugs in the ‘00s, but some things never changed and it didn’t take an architect of original sin to sniff out what was happening here. He also knew better than to tell this person that he had no idea what either of those things were. “Molly?” he guessed. That sounded like the safer of the two.

“25 dollars for 150’s,” she said.

“I don’t know,” said Mike hesitantly.

Crowley squeezed Mike’s hand. “Hey, I’m never gonna try to make you do something you don’t wanna do,” he said, “—but, I am buying.”

“Oh! Well, all right then!” said Mike, delighted. “But,” he added, “only if you’re gonna go with me.”

That wasn’t part of the plan, but Crowley only stumbled for a second. He thrust fifty dollars at the woman, who graced him with a spacey smile and dispensed two capsules into his palm.

Whatever. This was fine, he thought. It probably wouldn’t even affect him anyway, and besides, he could just sober himself up.

Crowley was not shocked to have lost Mike about fifteen minutes after they downed molly caps together. What did have him shook, was that it kind of hurt. He was keeping an eye out, and maybe if he tried he could have felt him in the crowd, but he decided to just let Mike humiliate himself without assistance. Instead, Crowley would just relax, and get nice and drunk. He’d earned it, he’d worked really hard today. He’d topped and everything.

He purchased an offensively small $8 cup of Coors, which immediately panicked and knew to stop being Coors. Crowley walked for a good twenty minutes or so until he found an unpopulated area of grass, far from the crowds and the music, and sank down to the earth where he could at least enjoy soaking up some hot sun. (Incidentally, it was the first time in the history of that particular festival where it had not rained.)

Crowley worked on his drink, willing it to stay full, and observed with more than a small amount of disappointment that he had been dead-on in his assessment that the drug would have no impact on his demonic essence. It had been well over a half-hour by this point, and he hadn’t experienced even the slightest shift in perception, even if the sun _did_ feel so good—

Even if the grass did feel _so_ good—

Oh.

A thing was happening.

It was happening _really fucking suddenly._

And then …

_Oh, nooo,_ thought Crowley, feeling the celestial interference ripple across reality.

“Crowley?” he heard the angel from above, to his right.

“Hi,” Crowley said, flat with embarrassment. He did not get up.

“Are you all right?” asked Aziraphale.

_‘Are you all right?,’_ Crowley repeated curiously, in his mind, which was beginning to spiral— _‘Are you all right?’_

Had a more gloriously poetic sentence ever been crafted?

Crowley reached out. It stunned him, how unabashed he was, how steady his hand was—why had it always frightened him, to reach for Aziraphale? His _angel!_ —as he took a pinch of Aziraphale’s cream-colored trousers between thumb and forefinger.

Crowley gasped, dropping his beer.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, “are you quite all right down there?”

_“They’re. So. SOFT,”_ Crowley choked in ecstasy.

“My dear boy,” said Aziraphale, “can you stand for me?”

Aziraphale had not meant for Crowley to climb _up_ the front of his body, but that was fine, too. Aziraphale took a confused step back, but he simply did not have the heart to pry Crowley’s twisted-up fingers off his lapels. But then, Crowley let go on his own accord, as he shoved his sunglasses into his pocket and buried his face in the back of his arm. His lower lip was trembling.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said desperately, reaching out to almost touch Crowley’s shoulder. “Are you crying??”

Crowley shuddered, then dropped his arm so that he could gaze on Aziraphale, eyes uncovered and expression cracked wide open. “You’re just—so— **bloody beautiful,”** he sobbed.

Ah. So that’s what this was.

Aziraphale tried to hide a smile like a bastard. He didn’t necessarily know any more about MDMA in particular than Crowley did, but he’d spent enough time around Crowley in the 1980s to know a thing or two about the state of Crowley’s pupils right now. “I see,” said Aziraphale, instantly entertained. “And are you on assignment, as I am?”

Crowley worked his jaw for a moment, no words coming out. “I am,” he admitted. There was a distant awareness to his tone which spoke volumes of _I think I fucked up._ “It’s just not important anymore, yeah?”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale tutted, “look at the sight of you, begging to be thwarted.” Aziraphale was starting to worry what might happen to Crowley if he failed Hell.

“S’okay,” Crowley mumbled. “S’done already.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley askance. “Is it now?”

Crowley nodded eagerly. He had moved on to petting Aziraphale’s hair. “S’like clouds,” he breathed. “‘Cause you’re an angel! Fluffy angel clouds!” This was spoken as if Crowley had unlocked some great mystery of the universe.

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale said gently, taking Crowley’s wrists carefully. He wasn’t sure if he had ever called Crowley “dear” before, as opposed to something less intimate like “my dear boy.” He just felt so deeply protective of the demon all of a sudden.

Crowley smiled softly (Aziraphale never knew the harsh line of Crowley’s mouth could go so soft), unable to tear his eyes away from Aziraphale’s, so blue. He pulled one hand from Aziraphale’s loose fingertips, and Aziraphale allowed him to caress his cheek over and over. “You’re so beautiful,” he told him again.

“You’re … under the influence of something,” Aziraphale protested mildly.

“I don’t feel stupid,” Crowley insisted, “I feel … like it’s okay to feel.”

Aziraphale felt something break in his chest. He had been about to suggest Crowley sober up, but now he was less sure if that was what he needed right now. _You poor sweet thing,_ he thought.

“Come now,” he said kindly, looping Crowley’s arm through his. “Let’s just sit and listen to some bebop a while.”

**Author's Note:**

> **_[Music to read by](https://youtu.be/CKrhXIfKMQY) _ **
> 
> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


End file.
